


The New Americana

by ObjectPermanence



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Drug Use, Drugged Sex, Dubious Consent, Heroin, M/M, as in Steve may or may not want to have sex if he wasn't high af, sorry Halsey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-02 16:13:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5254868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObjectPermanence/pseuds/ObjectPermanence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Go on Buck, show me. Show me what's so great about a fucking baggie of powder.</p><p>Update: Russian translation now available. Link in the notes! :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The New Americana

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back and writing for another fandom 2 years later... ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Steve high is the most beautiful thing Bucky has ever seen.

And that's saying something because he thinks the sun shines out of Steve's ass on any given day. He isn't even worried what Tony or Bruce or, god forbid, Natasha would do if they walked in right now and saw what he had done to their poor virginal captain. Or rather, what their poor virginal captain was doing to him.

Right now Bucky has a lap full of super-soldier and the way Steve is sloppily sucking at his neck is making his skin crawl with guilt. And yet, the feeling of Steve's arms wrapped around his shoulders, his hips rotating downwards in an uncoordinated attempt to grind their tented jeans against each other, and Steve now sucking at his ear is pulling moans from Bucky's lips. Who the hell is he kidding- Bucky could die happy right now with Steve's spit pooling in the shell of his ear and he's not even a little ashamed. 

Steve is making soft high noises as he noses along Bucky's jaw and carding fingers through his hair. 

He should probably feel bad. He does, in the back of his mind, because that little red dot on the inside of the crook of his elbow has marred Steve's flawless skin forever. And in the morning he's going to wake up and hate himself more than he ever has, and Steve will too, probably. But the guilt will have time to eat him later; right now he's floating, and Steve is right beside him, making pretty little noises as he shifts in Bucky's lap and wriggles closer.

"We should fuck", the words make Bucky jump and he chokes back a laugh because Steve is obviously trying to whisper and failing miserably, his voice echoing around their otherwise silent floor. The light filters through the blinds as New York whirs twenty stories below them, streets aglow with cars and people all blissfully unaware of the goings on above them. 

"I dunno, Stevie," he murmurs, calloused fingers carding through silky blonde hair. He feels like he's dirtying him and fuck, he  _likes_ it. Bucky has always known that he was sick in the head, long before Hydra ever got their hands on him. But he'd never imagined he'd drag an angel down with him. "What would sober Steve think?"

Steve, fallen from grace, pulls back with glazed eyes and a lopsided grin before ducking down to kiss him again. "Fuck sober Steve." Calloused hands grip Bucky's waist as Steve wriggles out of his lap. He barley has anytime to register the change in position before Bucky finds himself shoved onto his back against the pillows of the couch. 

From here, Steve is silhouetted by the soft light drifting into the living room from the kitchen as he tugs his shirt up and off of his chest. Bucky quickly follows suit before Steve moves to straddle him. They press against each other, groaning into the other's mouth as their clothed erections bump and grind.

He knows this is a million levels of fucked up; the drugs, the fight, the impending fucking. 

Instead he concentrates on Steve. Steve who had been so furious when he'd learned what everyone else had been skirting around for a month and a half now. Steve whose tongue is in his mouth, whose teeth are clacking against his; Steve who had looked almost like he wanted to cry when he'd first seen the row of track marks up the inside of his arms for the first time. 

He doesn't have the heart to tell him there are more than just those.

A weight is threatening to settle in Bucky's chest as Steve starts reaching for Bucky's belt, hastily trying to undo the buckle. Steve can forgive a lot of shit; all those people he murdered, the time he wet the bed while thrashing out against invisible threats, the way he shrinks away from reporters and cameras, only to slip into Steve's bed late at night and shake when the nightmares are too much. But this, this Steve will never forgive, couldn't forgive, not in a million years.

He slides his hands down, and they feel so large wrapped around Steve's waist. Mismatched hands glide over his smooth skin, making him suck in a sharp breath at the cold metal. Bucky toys with Steve's fly, pressing his flesh and blood hand against the front of Steve's pants. He feels like a giant and Steve feels like a porcelain doll, like he did so many years ago in that falling apart tenement building. But now Steve is flying, is eclipsing the sun, is hastily struggling with his own belt in an attempt to free his throbbing dick _._

What Bucky expected was a docile kitten, a sleepy blond boy nuzzling into his neck, curled up in his lap as he quietly rode out his first ever high.

What he got was a dangerous glint in blue eyes tinted red and traces of powder still sticking to his skin, to his clothes, as Steve pushed him back onto the couch and straddled him. 

He's heard before that heroin makes a hedonist of everyone. Turns people into sinners of the flesh, something animal and inhuman. Somehow, he'd thought the rule wouldn't apply to sweet, innocent, little Stevie. But Steve isn't some golden god like the media would have everyone think, as Bucky so often allows himself to believe- he's only human, a mortal in a mortal body just as susceptible to narcotics as his and right now he's more human than he's ever been, all sex and mussed hair and flushed lips, flushed face. Flush spreading down his chest and lower,because at some point he'd shoved his pants and boxer-briefs down enough to release his cock and Bucky tells himself he shouldn't feel guilty for staring when Steve had technically taken it off himself.

Bucky has seen more than a few cocks in his life and Steve's is by far the most beautiful. Steve's dick is candy pink and drooling, a wet spot having formed on the front of his boxer-briefs. He aches to stretch his lips around the considerable girth and inhale against the small tuft of wiry hair at the base.

Steve is going to be so mad at him in the morning.

Right now, though. Right now everything is forgotten. Whether or not Steve even remembers what he'd been angry about, or how he'd gotten himself into this position -  _"Go on Buck, show me. Show me what's so_ great  _about a baggie of fucking powder."_ \- he wants him now and it aches in his chest, aches because he wants to be wanted.

Aches because he knows he's not. Not really.

They're going to wake up tomorrow in a tangle of limbs and sweat and come, maybe beer, probably more of that powder that just clings to everything and that Steve will never escape now (unless he really  _is_ magic and he can resist the call, but privately Bucky thinks that this might be the one thing that Captain America can't do, nobody can, it's impossible and why would you want to anyways?) and with one massive ball of agony between them and Steve will spit curses as he stumbles out, most likely naked, and go to his own floor and never speak with him again. Maybe he'll quit the team, or just have Bucky kicked out, who knows.

But Steve will hate him.

And Bucky will hate himself. (But what else is new?)

Long after Steve has kicked him to the curb and spat in his face Bucky will close his eyes and remember the way he looked as he fucked into Bucky in long hard strokes, finding his release with a cry of his name. Remember those pleading words,  _God I love you so much Buck you're beautiful I love you I love you IloveyouIloveyou_  and all the things Steve would never say if Steve were Steve right now, and that he'll never live down, never forgive himself for saying, never want to remember again but that Bucky will treasure for the rest of his miserable life.

But right now he will come down a golden boy's throat and clip his wings and hope that come morning he will still be able to soar.

**Author's Note:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
